


Kleos

by Nyanoka



Category: Shin Megami Tensei Series, Shin Megami Tensei: Nocturne
Genre: Age Difference, Body Worship, M/M, Names, Power Dynamics, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22567816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: On the concepts of names, memories, and reasons.
Relationships: Lucifer/Hitoshura | The Demifiend
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Kleos

**Author's Note:**

> I have a rather large, massive really, soft spot for this pair honestly since the possibilities for it in a mental, physical, and emotional sense are rather large, and it is a rather complex dynamic imo, but it's rather rare (saying this as someone who has delved into LJs from the 2000s in pursuit of it). While nostalgic to see the site again, it is rather disappointing how little content there is. Unsurprising considering how old the game is and how neither form is a "bishounen" like the Raidou one. So, I thought I toss my hat into the ring (and because this is/was my warm-up since I am bereft of creativity for my workshop assignment right now. Rather unfortunate really). Might even procrastinate more and crank out those other ideas I always complain about not existing but never get to.
> 
> Please take the "Age Difference" tag into consideration as well.

Even during his days as a human, the Demifiend has always been a strange one. If the Baal Avatar and Noah were to still exist—breathing, struggling, as only beasts could—they would agree. He thinks so anyway. It has become difficult to remember his youth and their previous forms.

At the very least, Pixie certainly agrees, and she has been with him since his creation—rebirth as the more religious (or perhaps, superstitious) would say. Naturally, he allows it—her mischief and her teasing. As she is closest ally, some allowances would naturally follow. Unlike the majority of creatures in the labyrinth, the idea of crushing her for a simple slight or perhaps a snide, careless remark brings an illness upon his heart.

But still, she is right.

Even with his fading memory, he innately understands the differences that have come about.

He no longer quakes at the sight of blood or at the idea of violence. He certainly does not revel in it like some of his subordinates, but merely, it only invokes apathy. For him, violence and cruelty are neither gaiety nor taboo but simply necessity—the way of things in most matters.

Furthermore, most of the inhabitants of the labyrinth, and even those outside of it, simply did not respond well to anything else. Power and its direct display are what matter. Diplomacy and negotiations certainly exist, but even then, those depend on a display of a different matter—riches, protection, and so forth.

It is simply power by another moniker.

He no longer responds to his previous name either, not out of choice or revulsion at his previous weakness—his ill-formed shape—but mere necessity. In the simplest manner, he has forgotten it, his name and its reason.

Names.

Those are strange—funny—things. To live without one was to be categorized as an animal, but to accept a designator was to live by another’s command and will. However, with it comes recognition and memories. It is a relationship of symbiosis, one with the world and the world with one.

But still, even he has difficulties and surprisingly, it is his appearance that brings him such. He does not despise it, but there is an oddness that ensues on the rather infrequent occasions he spies himself in a mirror or some other reflective surface. It is not fear or repulsion, but simply oddness—the sensation of the strange in the mundane.

Unlike the Baal Avatar or Noah, his face, at a glance, still bears a semblance to that of a human’s. His flesh does not twist as the gnarled branches of a tree would nor does it pulsate as its own separate, living being. Even the lack of a recognizable face, such as in the case of ink-stained Aradia, would be much better. As he is now, skin marked and night dark upon the ghastly pale, he is too much of a human.

There is a naturalness in how the lines glow and in the horn that protrudes from the nape of his neck, but still, it is his face that unsettles him. At rest, he appears much too young, too boyish. It exists in the shape of his eyes, the rounded curves of his cheeks. Vaguely, he remembers how Noah had mocked him for that—teasing as Pixie is now but still, it had been a mockery.

Only when he bares his fangs—they could not be called anything else at this point—in a beastly snarl does it disappear, false humanity dispersing as chrysanthemum seeds would.

The idea of mutilation or perhaps modification had crossed his mind once, but he had dismissed it just as quickly. It would be foolish—a waste of both time and energy—to follow through with. Furthermore, his body’s own natural capacities or even one of Pixie’s healing spells would reverse it easily enough.

There is simply no point to that particular train of thought.

Furthermore, despite his own discomfort, it—his appearance—pleases him, the true Lord of the labyrinth. It is only in this—that affection—that the Demifiend takes pleasure. Like liquor, it dulls the strangeness that his appearance brings.

He presumes anyway. Back when he was a human, he had never been the sort to ever indulge in Noah’s jests, and even now, the idea of imbibement—no matter how much Loki pesters—simply does not appeal to him.

Though on the matter at hand, he is not quite certain on the “when” or the “why” of their current relationship, but he enjoys it well enough—the words and the caresses and everything in-between.

Nonetheless, there are memories—fragments of the now—that he holds particularly dear, no matter their own wickedness in the eyes of an outsider.

In one of the lonesome corners of the labyrinth, a slender form had weighed upon his lap, and hands much smaller than his own had caressed him, traced the lines of his face and chest as one would to a road map. Naturally, he had abided it, even when his legs had begun to numb slightly from their crossed position.

His fingertips had been soft, holding the essence of false youth and eternal promises. It is a touch that could be described as gentle even as it burns at his core and strokes at unsaid desires.

Fingertips trailed from the corner of his eye to his cheek and down his neck and to his chest, hands momentarily stopping over the home of his heart. He has no doubts that the other, even in such a boyish form, could still it just as easily as his hands moved upon and grazed the skin.

If one were to look at them then, it would have been an innocuous sort of painting—a curious child and perhaps an older sibling or cousin indulging inquisitiveness. At least, it would appear as such until hands moved elsewhere, and a small, smiling mouth pressed to the corner of his lips—uncharacteristically sweet and cajoling.

There are no audible words from either of them, but it is an invitation still, one that he readily accepts without needing thought or further consideration.

It had been upon the hard, dirtied floor of Amala—not silk or velvet—that he strengthened their covenant.

He remembers pushing him onto the floor—his hands upon thin, deceptively delicate wrists, the other’s pristine suit wrinkled, and normally kempt blond hair spread messily in an imitation of a halo. There had been no resistance, not for a lack of ability but because of a mutual willingness.

And as with many matters of this nature, it had simply progressed—scattered dress, slicked and probing fingers, and unnatural warmth, a consequence of both their actions and his body’s own inherent heat.

It had not been the first nor had it been the last of these sorts of interactions. Though, it had been the most forward of the other’s actions at that point, and the “first” for him in that sense if he were to consider the old world.

But still, he is an accomplice to the matter. In other instances, he had been the one to initiate such behaviors.

In the privacy of the bedroom, he remembers his knees giving forward and the act of bowing, the removal of shoes, and the press of his own mouth against wizened feet. It had been willing, of course, and the other, his cane still held in hand, had allowed it. He has no doubts that the other held the means—the power—to rebuke him if he were to so wish.

But—he did not, and so he had continued, trailing kisses and blasphemy as he went.

And just as it had with the child form, it had progressed from there—hands roaming, soft noises (his own weakness naturally), and the feel of flesh against flesh. He remembers his fingers—rough and calloused—hastily and clumsily undoing the other's belt and trouser buttons, his mouth then upon unclothed groin, and the later moment of being hoisted onto the other’s lap. He remembers the feeling of varnished wood pressed lightly into his backside alongside creased palms and hard nails. He remembers the creak of metal, the wheelchair, and its coolness in comparison to their combined body heat.

Teeth, deceivingly human unlike his own, nipped against his neck, and much like with the child, hands—gaunt and aged instead of soft and young—traced the fruit of his work before stilling lightly over his heart and remaining there for what felt like eternity. Unlike his earlier eagerness, he had not struggled or urged the other to quicken pace. Instead, he remembers his own breathing and his own heartbeat, both quickened from their activities, and the air between them—stilled and waiting as a tomb.

Of course, there had been more to it naturally, once the other's contemplation ended. Hands grasping at white cloth, the discarding of his own wear, and the bond reinforced by pain, pleasure, and physical connection.

Even with his own immaturity, it had been an enjoyable experience for himself, and he hopes the same for the other.

It is an almost-childish sense of pride that remains still.

But still, nonetheless, it had been willing—it always has to be willing—that is the nature of their interactions, the precarious edge on which their relationship worked.

If morality—the old world’s morality—were still applicable in any sense of the word, it would have been considered revolting, confusing even. Perhaps, Baal would have been disgusted, or perhaps she would have simply not cared. He could not quite remember her outside of fragments, the moments after the end and those during their last encounter. Similarly, he cannot quite place Noah’s or Aradia’s (hypothetical) reactions either.

In that way, memory is a funny matter. One tended to remember one moment—minuscule or otherwise—while others waned no matter their importance to the being. Happiness, guilt, longing. There is no rhyme or reason to which feelings remained and which faded into obscurity and the haziness of time.

Naturally, he has taken other forms as well—a woman, a young man, and even that of his original and that of the demonic. Curiosity is naturally in both of their natures, and with it comes experimentation. He, by virtue of their identity, likes them all really. However, it is the child and the old man that the Demifiend prefers best—familiarity as it were.

Of course, it is still an assumption to be made if the other truly cared for him, or if it is simply a ploy for his continued loyalty. Even with his own strangeness and his own inclinations, he is not foolish.

However, there is a question of regret—his—in the other’s actions, in the accommodations that he is allowed to enjoy in comparison to others. There are moments, actions, and sights that only he is privy to. It is the question of “why.”

That is the ambiguity that draws him nearer—to both heat and to cold flame.

Or perhaps that is merely his own conjecture, a remnant of human sentimentality and human assumption. He isn’t quite sure.

At times, even with his age, it is difficult to separate the now from the past.

But still, a return to memory—to the past—did not quite hold the charm or appeal that it once did, years ago when he awoke upon the autopsy table; afraid, bewildered, and alone.

He is simply too different now, a natural—or perhaps, twisted if he were to consider human morality—result of growing up. His form and inclinations are simply too different to return to what once was, to childhood and to distant dreams.

Even as a demon, he is a strange one. If he had had been anyone else, perhaps he would have sought to subjugate him or perhaps even usurp him, the Lord of the Labyrinth—Lucifer—but he does not. There is no need to. Perhaps that is the loyalty Lucifer sought to inspire in him, his greatest creation.

It is not quite love, but it is not apathy or fear either.

But still, it would be both a fool’s remark and a slight against them both to call it love, but it is a close enough description, he thinks. It is acceptable enough. In that, there is a sort of contentment, and he hopes that it is a shared sentiment. At the very least, it cannot be apathy nor can it be hatred.

Even if he could not fully understand it, it is enough for now.

But still, he is the Demifiend and that is the way of things.

For him, his name and his reason are enough as it is now.

**Author's Note:**

> I ended up utilizing "Kleos," the Greek concept of glory, and the concept of names as my themes since Nocturne utilizes the Moirai, and overall the Demifiend does go on a Hero's Journey of sorts. Additionally, I think it's a more interesting topic than just cranking out some plain ol' nsfw. As dashing and stylish as Old Man Lucifer is, a lot of his appeal comes from the sense of power one perceives from him—I believe anyway.
> 
> For a very simplified version, Kleos is the concept of glory obtained through action and renown (think Achilles and his actions in the Trojan War) and immortalized in word (or oral tradition as was the case). As a result, voice (or sometimes, the lack therof), names, and memories play a rather large part in this.  
> You can also see bits of religious blasphemy/symbolism (as is expected of anything dealing with the concept of Lucifer) in encounters with both forms and throughout. For example, the rather bastardized version of the "washing of the feet" found in the New Testament with Jesus and the Disciples. 
> 
> And this is a rather sentimental fanwork at times with Lucifer's true intentions being somewhat ambiguous, but the answer is given in text in how names are approached—specifically the concept and sharing of such. But, any interpretation works I think if you don't care for that one.


End file.
